


your taste is so seductive (i'm feeling self-destructive)

by lostandlonelybirds (RUNNFROMTHEAK)



Series: Birthday Gifts <3 [1]
Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, Nightwing (Comics), Red Hood and the Outlaws (Comics)
Genre: A bit of Tim mocking, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bad Jokes, Bruce Wayne's death, Damian Wayne's death, Dick Grayson Has Issues, Dick Grayson Needs a Hug, Dick Grayson is Bad at Feelings, Dick Grayson is Batman, Dick Grayson is Damian Wayne’s Parent, Dick Grayson's death, Donna Troy's death, Drunken Confessions, Drunken Shenanigans, Enemies to Lovers, Flirting, Getting Together, Grief/Mourning, Hurt Dick Grayson, Hurt Jason Todd, Jason Todd Has Issues, Jason Todd Needs A Hug, Lazarus Pit Madness, M/M, Major Charcter Deaths Occur Offscreen, Mental Health Issues, Mutual Pining, Nightwing Volume 3 Issue 30, POV Jason Todd, Post-Batman Incorporated (2012) Issue 08, Pre Battle for the Cowl, Protective Jason Todd, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, and some sanity, but it's jason so it's totally canon, just a tiny bit, no beta we die like everyone Dick's ever loved
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-17
Updated: 2020-08-17
Packaged: 2021-03-06 05:55:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25948432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RUNNFROMTHEAK/pseuds/lostandlonelybirds
Summary: “Fancy seeing you here,” Jason says with a sneer, taking the barstool next to Dick, “Shouldn’t you be with the brats, reading Daddy Dearest’s final cast-off orders?”Dick lifts his head from the bar, hair a chaotic tangle and eyes puffy and red.“Fuck off, Jason.”Jason smirks, feeling that oh-so-familiar satisfaction at riling up the supposed Golden Boy of their fucked up family. No one seems to get Dick like he did, they didn’t see the ugliness always simmering beneath the surface, a humming livewire of tension waiting for a spark.Dick doesn’t need Lazarus to have darkness.It’s what Jason has always been attracted to, after all.**or... a series of unfortunate drunk times, and the one time Dick and Jason admitted they have feelings.
Relationships: Dick Grayson & Bruce Wayne, Dick Grayson & Damian Wayne, Dick Grayson & Donna Troy, Dick Grayson/Jason Todd, Jason Todd & Bruce Wayne
Series: Birthday Gifts <3 [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1883293
Comments: 41
Kudos: 506





	your taste is so seductive (i'm feeling self-destructive)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [NightwingVixen23](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=NightwingVixen23).



> Ahhhh! Special thanks to my Rat Pack for all the encouragement and support!! this is a super late b-day gift to my good friend Vee! (NightwingVixen23 on tumblr). I hope you love this girly!!!

January 14th – Death of Bruce Wayne

This bar is a shithole, so it just figures Gotham’s darling child would be here on today of all days. It’s Jason’s bar, the bar he’s gone to since he got his first fake ID, and Dick should know that. He shouldn’t _be_ here.

“Fancy seeing _you_ here,” Jason says with a sneer, taking the barstool next to Dick, “Shouldn’t you be with the brats, reading Daddy Dearest’s final cast-off orders?”

Dick lifts his head from the bar, hair a chaotic tangle and eyes puffy and red.

“Fuck off, Jason.”

Jason smirks, feeling that oh-so-familiar satisfaction at riling up the supposed Golden Boy of their fucked up family. No one seems to get Dick like he does, they didn’t see the ugliness always simmering beneath the surface, a humming livewire of tension waiting for a spark.

Dick doesn’t need Lazarus to have darkness.

It’s what Jason has always been attracted to, after all.

“Nah,” He says, tossing back the two fingers of whiskey he’d ordered on Matches Malone’s standing tab. If the old man decides to croak, far be it for Jason to not drink the pain away on his dime. “Don’t think I will, wouldn’t want to give you ideas about the new chain of command, Dickiebird.”

Dick snorts, but it’s more of a laugh towards the end because he _shakes_ with it, like it’s bottled up Joker venom kicking in. Knowing Dick, it could be. Fucker _would_ go straight from patrol to getting drunk in a shady upscale bar. Or he could be working on a case while getting drunk, which also sounds like him.

“Far be it for you to listen. That would make my life way too easy.”

Jason’s grin is all teeth.

“We both know I like to make things _hard_ on you.”

The innuendo is clearly not missed on his predecessor, who flushes prettily and stares into the fruity monstrosity he calls a drink. Jason scoffs, waving over the bartender to order a round of whiskey.

“One for the pretty boy too,” He says, jerking a thumb at Dick.

The bartender nods, refilling Jason’s glass and handing another over to Dick, who glares at it.

“You’re trying to get me drunk,” He accuses, blue eyes narrowed in suspicion which, you know, _fair_.

Last Dick had seen him, he’d been a giant tentacle monster eating people, slitting throats and just all around fucking up Dick’s life as Nightwing. Wasn’t that what unwanted successors are for? ( ~~He’d say brother but Gotham isn’t Alabama, and he’s not really into incest roleplay~~ )

Jason shrugs, not denying the accusation and sipping at the liquor. It burns a pleasant trail down his throat, a familiar one. Tastes like those Galas from _before_ , back when he’d been a kid who'd thought the world of Bruce and snuck sips of overpriced liquor in shadowed corners.

He’s grown calmer in the last few years, more settled in his skin, the Lazarus more dormant. His eyes still light up like a goddamn glowstick when he’s particularly angry, but it’s not a full-body thing anymore. He can even think of _before_ without going nuclear, but that’s probably Donna’s influence. It had been impossible to avoid his past when he’d been locked in a space ship with her and Kyle Rayner searching for Atom for weeks on end, especially since she never shuts up about Dick.

“Don’t you know whiskey’s for drowning sorrows, Dickiebird? Not that fruity shit you’re throwing back.”

Dick rolls his eyes, looking marginally more like himself. Not the sunny version he shows everyone, or the peace-keeping version he _tries_ to be, no. The version of him _Jason_ knows best, the irritated and angry version that has a quick temper and a mouth that can get ahead of him. The part of him that Jason _lives_ to force out. Maybe it’s sick of him, but he doesn’t particularly care. He likes seeing Goldie as messed up as him because it lets him believe it’s more _Bruce_ than _Jason_ that is responsible for how fucked up his head is. Common denominators and all that.

“I like things sweet, they hurt less going down.”

“And I’m sure they hurt more coming up, not to mention the hangovers.”

Dick’s lips quirk, as if he feels like smiling but doesn’t really want to.

“I’m not the best at handling my liquor anymore, so I’m fucked either way.”

Jason rolls his eyes.

“At least get fucked up with _class_ , honestly. One would think you weren’t raised by a billionaire.”

“I wasn’t. Not really. Honestly, Alfred raised me more than Bruce did, even if I spent most of my time on the streets at B’s side.”

Perks of vigilantism during formative years, Jason would guess. He’d moved in with Bruce at thirteen, not eight like Dick had, and split his time between books, Alfred in the kitchen, and the streets. Towards the end, he’d been clocking almost as much field time as Dick had before the massive split. But then he’d died, and comparing himself to the older boy hadn’t mattered as much anymore.

“Just take the fucking drink,” Jason says, nudging it towards Dick.

Dick downs it in one gulp like a heathen, spluttering at the burn.

“Out of practice?” Jason leers, out of boredom more than any half-assed intentions of seduction, but Dick flushes all the same.

“Not drunk enough to sleep with you,” Dick mutters, sipping at another drink as Jason splutters.

“You…wouldn’t do that drunk or sober,” Jason mutters, running a hand through his hair and cursing himself for feeling so… _affected_ by a few words out of Golden Boy’s stupidly pretty mouth.

Dick’s eyes hold something Jason can’t place, like a book with a few dozen pagen ripped out so you only know half the story. But then again, it might just be _Dick_ , master of helping-you-see-only-what-you-want-to-see/what-he-wants-you-to-see.

“No,” Dick murmurs softly, “I suppose I wouldn’t.”

Jason hums, downing the rest of his glass in one gulp.

“You’re going to have to step up, you know.”

Dick eyes him warily.

“I’m not _him_.”

“You think Replacement’s ready for that kind of burden?” Jason leans in closer. “You think _I’m_ morally sound enough for that?”

“ _He_ said I don’t have to be Batman.”

Jason shrugs, brushing past Dick and pausing at the door.

“Gotham’s not gonna give you a choice.”

Then, he leaves the Golden Boy to his grieving. After all, if the whiz-kid destined to take over the Justice League isn’t gonna step up to be Batman, why not let the black sheep have a spin of Daddy-dearest’s hand-me-downs?

*

June 11th – Anniversary of the Death of Donna Troy

Dick sighs as Jason approaches him, as though he’s exhausted by the sight of him. Jason would be indignant about it, offended and all grr-argh angry with the whole glowing eyes and remember-I-died monologue, but it’s fair. Jason did try to kill Tim (obviously not hard enough) and he did shoot Damian after killing a few dozen people. Maybe. It’s all a bit of a blur, he’d been too angry to think straight because Bruce-fucking-Wayne still thinks he knows what’s best even from the beyond. What a prick.

“She died today,” Dick says softly, finger tracing the waterline left by the empty cup of gin on the rocks. His drinking habits are still abysmal, Jason’s sure Bruce is rolling over in his empty coffin as they speak. “One year, five minutes, and fifteen seconds ago.”

It’s pretty gruesome to know your best friend’s time of death with such precision, but Jason’s not surprised. Dick’s always loved his pity parties and self-flagellation, little idiot that he is. Heroic, sure, but still an idiot. He has a martyrization complex rivaling Jesus Christ and Joan of Arc, after all.

“Donna’s alive,” Jason says just as softly, wary to break the unspoken truce between them. “I saw her during the crisis. We worked together.”

Dick nods, moving his attention from the leftover water on the bar top to the ice cubes in his glass. He swirls them around carefully, watching the little blocks tip and slide and fall. His face is blank, the way Jason’s always tried to look but failed because he’s an emotional moron sometimes.

Good ol’ resurrection pit of mystical swirling shit only made it worse, made his grip on sanity a bit loser, his control on his emotions less ironclad. He’s always had a godawful poker face, just another one of the ten billion things Golden Boy is better than him at.

“It’s strange, isn’t it? People die in horrible, gruesome ways and still come back. They walk in and out of my life like it’s a revolving door, and I still can’t stop thinking about it.”

Jason’s quiet, because it seems like Dick’s building to something.

“She died for me.”

“You’re her best friend.”

Dick looks up at Jason for the first time, and it’s only then he sees the shadows around Dick’s baby blues, the bags upon bags of no-sleep-only-justice Dick seems to have inherited from Bruce along with Demon Brat, daddy issues, and the Batsuit.

“She’s mine. But she told me to stand down and I did. I stood down and watched a clone melt a hole through her heart and didn’t do a _thing_. She told me to stand down and I didn’t stop her.”

“Goldie—”

“Do you know what that’s like? Do you know what it’s like to watch someone you love more than life itself, someone you’d give anything to protect, die for you? Do you know what it’s like to constantly be the one left behind? The one who _doesn’t_ die?”

“ _Dick—”_

Dick shakes his head.

“You died, Jason. You died. Steph died. Cass died. Bruce _is_ dead. Clark, Barry, Oliver, Donna… _everyone_ dies but me. It doesn’t _matter_ that they’re back, that _you_ are back, because you still died. I still had to watch her die. I still had to feel her pulse fade under my hand. I still had to fucking _bury_ her in the ground. She’s back, but I still miss her. I’m still grieving. How fucked up is that?”

Jason has nothing to say. What can he say? He can tell jokes aren’t going to go over too well with Captain Broody-pants at the moment, not that Jason can really blame him. Huh, that’s progress. Normally he’s quite happy blaming Batman for anything and everything wrong in the world, but it feels different knowing it’s Dick. It’s not as easy to hate him, threats of unmasking with him and Damian strapped to chairs in front of a webcam not-withstanding (he’s only human, and human’s make _mistakes_ , fuck you very much).

He keeps his mouth shut instead, waving the bartender over for a round of shots.

Dick’s eyes narrow on him, laser-focused even through the slight haze of the drinks Jason can smell on his breath.

“Nothing to say? You _always_ have some cute little quip or throw away commentary on my life. Don’t stop the feedback now. Go ahead, tell me it’s my fault.”

Jason rolls his eyes, and down the shot in front of him, sliding the second over to Dick.

“Just shut the fuck up and drink. You’re too pathetic to fight right now. I’ll go back to kicking your ass tomorrow.”

Dick huffs out a laugh.

“I am pathetic.” There’s a pause, eyes assessing his like he’s some formula Dick wants to work out in that pretty little head of his. And fuck Jason if Dick doesn’t look good even when he’s a prickly mess. “I still miss him, you know. I keep thinking he’d know what to do if he was here.”

He won’t admit it, but a part of Jason misses the old bastard too.

Jason bumps his shoulder with Dick’s, a sly grin in place as he downs another shot.

“For a goody-two-shoes you ain’t doing too bad. Demon Brat’s not killing anymore, and that’s a damn achievement in itself. B couldn’t get him to do anything.”

Dick rests his head on Jason’s shoulder, loose bangs teasing the exposed skin of Jason’s neck. He freezes, shoulders stiff and mouth slack as Dick melts against him, slumped. Jason holds his breath, starring down at Dick in confusion, who refuses to meet his eyes.

“You’re still a killer. This doesn’t mean anything, Dami and I will throw you in jail later.”

Jason rolls his eyes, wrapping an arm around Dick’s waist to tug him closer.

“Sure thing, Pretty Bird. You get right on that.”

He rests his chin on Dick’s head and tries not to smile. Doesn’t mean anything Dick’s _ass_ (which Jason still totally wants to tap, in a less grief-y setting). Dick doesn’t do casual, he’s more of a “fall in love on the first date” and “wish on a shooting star” rom-com watching soulmate-believing type. This is trust. This is him being vulnerable with Jason because he thinks Jason won’t take advantage. This… this is a hell of a lot more than Jason’s ever had.

He doesn’t say any of this, though, content by Dick’s warm body flushed against him, a heat he can feel through the layers of armor. Jason’s been in love with Dick since he’d met him; he’s become a master at not verbalizing thoughts or feelings (also part of being Bruce Wayne’s traumatized orphan adoptee of the year).

“Thank you.”

Jason lets himself smile where Dick can’t see.

“You’re welcome.”

*

Bruce’s Return

“Shouldn’t you be celebrating?” Jason asks with a sly grin, shoving some guy out of the seat next to Dick and taking it. “No more capes, no more Demon Brats…”

Dick shoots him a look, fierce and wild, before slamming his head back down on the bar top. He lifts a single finger, and the bartender brings him over some fruity monstrosity that looks like diabetes through a swirly straw. So he’s dealing with a Dick Grayson in the midst of a deep-funk, pity-party. Shit. He’d figured Dick would have at least lectured him about the shoving thing. Normally he’s all ‘kill ‘em with kindness’ while in civilian garbs.

And to think he’d turned down raiding Sionis’s warehouse to follow (read: _stalk_ ) Dick and say hi. Just goes to show his luck. Last time he’d been spontaneous he’d received a crowbar to the ribs and a fancy tombstone for his troubles. Now, he gets mopey Goldie when he could’ve replaced the bazooka he’d misplaced. It had totally been worth it though, Joker’s latest hideout went up in flames with Dick none the wiser of who’d done it. World’s Greatest Detective his ass. Goldie’s always been too trusting for that, too willing to see the best in people and too unwilling to see the worst.

People like Jason, people like _Damian_ , don’t change. They change their habits and their masks. They change their behavior and they change what they show, but they don’t change in their heart.

Once a killer, _always_ a killer.

Bruce had known that.

(or maybe that’s just Jason’s innate cynicism, who knows).

“Do you always drink when you’re upset?”

Dick gives a watery chuckle, muffled by the arm he’s resting on.

“Sometimes. Sometimes I don’t.”

“Three times makes a pattern, Dickie.”

Dick sets aside the swirly straw and takes a large gulp of his monstrosity.

“Maybe it is,” he says after a beat, tongue darting out to lick the remnants of froth on his lips. Jason’s eyes trace the motion against his will, traitorous things they are. “Maybe I don’t care anymore.”

Jason sighs.

“Pessimism ain’t your tune, Pretty Bird.”

Dick shrugs.

“Maybe it is now.”

“That’s a lot of maybes.”

Another shrug.

Jason puts a hand on Dick’s hunched shoulders, squeezing gently.

“Bluebird, what’s going on?”

Dick laughs again, a bit unhinged as it echoes the quiet bar. A few people give Dick curious looks, but the blood-shot eyes must warn them away. That and Jason’s glare, which is pretty scary if he does say so himself.

“What isn’t going on? Bruce is back, of course. Why should I be anything less than positively _delighted_ , right? Why shouldn’t I be bouncing off the walls to be put back in my place, right?”

Dick gives a little hiccup, dissolving into giggles afterwards. To Jason’s horror, his eyes water. The shimmer of tears pooling in his eyes, impossible to ignore. Dick doesn’t cry, it’s something Jason’s held as truth for a long time. Dick doesn’t break, that’s something he’s always thought. This…this feels like breaking.

“Did you know,” Dick starts, smiling brilliantly as though he’s not laughing like he’s on Joker venom. “That I’m not Damian’s dad? I guess I forgot that, when I was raising him. Housing him. Caring for him. It’s so funny, you know. I almost _forgot_. How do you forget that someone’s not your kid?”

Jason frowns.

“You’re probably the closest thing to a dad that kid’s ever had. Give yourself more credit, he _loves_ you. I’ve seen it. That kid would do anything for you.”

Dick squeezes his eyes shut, lips trembling slightly.

“That’s the problem, Little Wing, isn’t it?” a single tear slips down Dick’s cheek as he smiles, still giving those horrible little giggles as he takes a breath. “He would do _anything_ for me. He would raze the world and doom it to Hell if I needed him to. That’s the problem. I’m the most important thing in the world to that kid, and I can’t be. He’s not my son. I’m not…”

Jason cups Dick’s face in his hands, feeling him slump into the touch like a deflated balloon.

“Pretty Bird?”

The smile finally drops. A broken whisper the only sound that leaves Dick’s hunched over form.

“I’m not his dad.”

The dam breaks at once. The single tear is joined by others, streams of salt Jason can’t brush aside fast enough. Dick’s trying to smile through it, sad little hiccups and shaky lips with trembling shoulders. Every inch of him is shuddering, breaking at the seams, and Jason doesn’t know what to do. Comforting hadn’t been a big part of Crime Alley, and living with Bruce Wayne hadn’t changed that at all.

“C’mere,” he says softly, wrapping his arms around Dick and pulling him close. He should care that this is in public, that people are watching and he’s showing vulnerability, but he could care less when Dick’s blue eyes seem so broken, when he’s curling in on himself and seems so small.

Dick’s pliant as Jason maneuers him, hiccups muffled by his hand and Jason’s shoulder.

“I’m not his dad,” he repeats, like it’s sinking in for the first time. “He’s not mine. I can’t stay with him.”

“Dickie—”

Dick turns on him, and Jason feels the words die on his tongue. He looks so hurt, like the weight of the world is on his shoulders, like his heart’s breaking right in front of Jason.

“I _have_ to go, or he won’t ever move beyond me. I’m…I can’t be his everything. I can’t be the most important person in the world to him. I _can’t_.”

“So what?” Jason says. “So what if you’re the most important person in the world to him? So what if he’d burn down the world for you? Lots of people would, Dick. Lots of people love you like that.”

‘ _I love you like that_.’

Dick looks at him like he can hear the thought. Azure eyes burning and strong, even through the tears.

“They shouldn’t. I’m not worth that. He can’t love me like that. I have to let Bruce take over. I have to leave, so Damian learns to trust other people.”

“You’ll break that kid’s heart,” Jason counters. “You’ll break that kid’s heart when he’s only just learned to let people in and you’ll break your own heart, for what? For _Bruce_? For the _world_?”

“This isn’t _easy_ for me,” Dick snaps. “I _have_ to.”

“I never said it was easy. If it was easy, you wouldn’t be at a dive bar at 2am drunk and arguing with _me_ of all people. But that doesn’t answer my question. Dickie, why the hell do you think you have to leave? You’re _Batman_. You’ve put this city back together and bent over backwards to keep it safe. You. Don’t. Have. To. Leave.”

Dick leans towards to Jason, close enough for Jason to feel the warmth of Dick’s breath fan across his cheeks. Close enough for him smell the alcohol on Dick’s breath.

“I do,” Dick says. And then he kisses Jason, and Jason’s mind blanks.

It’s soft, chaste. A few light brushes of lips as Jason tries to think, tries to _breathe_ , because Dick’s warm and close and practically _on his lap_ —

“But I wish I didn’t have to,” Dick finishes, breaking the kiss and pulling away fast enough for Jason to feel dizzy. His brain’s not working, it needs a complete reboot. He’s…Dick just… _They_ just…

And then, before Jason can so much as voice any of the hundreds of thoughts swarming around his brain (most of which are embarassingly high-pitched shrieks) Dick’s out the door. Jason runs after him, barely noticing the drops of rain.

“Dick!” he calls, but Dick doesn’t turn back.

Dick doesn’t turn back until he’s at his bike, red-eyed and rain-soaked. He looks at Jason briefly, blue eyes soft and fond, before narrowing in determination. The motorcycle roars past him a moment later, and he doesn’t hear from Dick for a long while.

*

February 27th – Death of Damian Wayne

They don’t speak. As Damian flocks to Dick’s side in Robin garbs, Jason doesn’t say a word to Dick. He watches him, sees the tension in his shoulders, the way he tries to smile despite the fear, but says nothing. Jason’s not sure he has anything to say. It had just been a kiss after all, a kiss when Dick had been drunk enough to not _care_ that it had been Jason across from him, drunk enough that Jason shouldn’t have kissed back. He’d taken advantage of Dick, indulged in his adolescent fantasies a moment too long because Dick hadn’t stopped him, and the guilt’s like a sword to the spleen (ah mocking Tim about that never gets old).

There’s nothing left to say, and by the time he thinks about saying something, Damian is dead.

He’s the first to find Dick with the body (and it’s so weird to think of Damian like that, so quiet when he’s never been quiet, so soft when he’s only ever been sharp. No eleven-year-old should be a body). He’s the first to find Nightwing covered in Damian’s blood, cradling the corpse-like one cradles a newborn baby. Dick’s rocking back and forth, singing a lullaby in an Arabic accent so rough Jason can only decipher half the words (he’s never been the best at Arabic, he prefers Latin and French and Spanish). Dick’s crying too, soft sniffles spilling onto Damian’s body, where his head’s covered by his cape, like Dick’s still protecting him from seeing their awful reality.

Jason hadn’t believed it, at first. Hadn’t thought Talia al Ghul capable of calling a hit on her son, of orchestrating this kind of senseless destruction. He’d thought her a woman of morals and righteous honor, but this proves him wrong. The same kind of wrong he’d found so long ago, looking for a home in blood and finding a grave instead. The same kind of wrong he’d felt when he’d shielded Sheila Haywood’s body with his own.

This…this is something he would never do at his worst, because there’s nothing that hurts more than a mother betraying her son. He would know. It’s why he’d died, after all. And now…

Now that’s why Damian’s dead. A replacement in blood, body, and soul as his literal killer. God, that kid had been such a brat but he deserves so much better than that. He’d deserved Dick, and instead he’d gotten…

“Dick?” he calls softly.

Dick ignores him, pressing a soft kiss to the cloth material of Damian’s cape, right where his forehead is covered. His lips come back bloody, but Dick either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care. Jason throws his guns on the ground, dropping into a crouch next to Dick, keeping his motions slow and obvious for him to read. Damian had confided in him a few weeks before about Dick’s breakdowns, things he’d learned as Dick’s Robin and things he’d learned as Dick’s brother.

_“He likes reading you. He needs to read your intentions, to see your every movement so he knows you aren’t a threat. He gets angry, lashes out. Grayson’s never been good with his emotions, Todd. He’ll need someone if I…” Die._

Jason’s grateful for those words now, those bits of advice, because he has no clue what to do with this. He has no clue what the hell he can say or do, not now. Not when Damian’s…

“He’s okay,” Dick says to Jason, quiet enough that he needs to lean forward to hear it. “I made it in time. My little boy is okay, and I can tell Bruce to shove his stupid vision-dreams up his ass. Little D is safe, and he’s here, and everything is okay. Everything can be good again.”

Jason says nothing, staring helplessly into Dick’s teary-azure eyes. There’s a brokenness to them, something he’d seen before when Dick had kissed him, like a picture burning and crumbling before his eyes and leaving nothing but ashes. There’s no sparkle, no mischief, only a thin layer of hope, flakey and delusional, and behind it a father holding his dead son’s body.

“Dick—”

“ _No_ ,” Dick says firmly. “Dami’s okay. He didn’t die for me. He _didn’t_. I told him he’s not allowed, Little Wing, and he’d do anything for me. _You said_ he’d do anything for me, and all I asked him to do was not die.”

“Pretty Bird, he loves you, and that’s _why_ —”

“NO!” Dick holds the body closer, like it’s all that’s keeping him together. “He’s alive. He’s just asleep, Jay. He has to be. He _has_ to be.”

Jason wraps an arm around Dick’s shoulders, feeling the older slump in his embrace, still cradling the kid that shouldn’t be dead.

“Jason, please tell me Dami’s alive. Please tell me he’s alive and okay and I didn’t fail someone else. _Please_.”

“I’m sorry,” Jason says, but the words taste sour off his tongue. Meaningless appeasements, useless words. Jason’s a man of action, but there’s no action in grief, nothing to do in the aftermath but _hurt_ (and it’s the emotional pain that fucks them all over time and time again). “You were his world.”

Dick drops his head onto Damian’s, forehead to forehead.

“You said that before,” choked out, a few more tears joining the blood on Damian’s suit. “But what you didn’t know was he’s my world too.”

‘He’s my world too,’ Dick says, and Jason hears what he doesn’t say. ‘He’s my world too, and now he’s gone.’

“You have to let him go, Dickie. He needs to be…”

“I won’t leave him here,” Dick manages, curling over Damian protectively. “I won’t leave him here, not with…” He looks at the wall to their left, broken and bludgered with the skewered corpse of Damian’s clone attached.

Jason walks over to the clone’s slumped body, bloody and charred, like he’d been beaten and set on fire before the weapon went through his heart. He puts two fingers to the clone’s pulse point on his neck, and goes cold when he feels nothing.

“He’s dead. Dick, Heretic is dead.”

Dick doesn’t seem to hear him, back in his own little world as he strokes Damian’s face with the back of his knuckles lightly.

“Pretty Bird, Heretic is _dead_. Did you…?”

He’s never seen Dick at his actual worst, not the way he’s heard it described by others. Roy had told him about the aftermath of Donna’s death, the reckless cold-hot temper that Dick had wielded like a weapon to push everyone away. Tim had told him about Joker, watching Dick’s eyes darken and frost over as he beat the clown to death without hesitation. Damian had told him about the aftermath of Joker’s newest fun time experiment with their family, the way Dick’s anger hit a peak and everyone had thought he’d get himself killed.

He used to call Dick the Golden Boy because he always follows Bruce’s rules, because he hadn’t died after making a mistake, because he’s always been so _compassionate_ and _good_ and more than any of them really deserve.

A year ago, he wouldn’t have thought Dick capable of something like this, even knowing the clone had murdered Damian. Now, he knows better. He’d seen the footage of Joker’s death, watched Dick Grayson paint the blue stripes red, and this death has that same kind of violence.

There’s a poetic justice in using the weapon that killed Damian to kill his murderer. Dick wouldn’t have thought like that though, it would’ve been blind rage. It would’ve been him reaching for the first thing he could find, and using more force than it took. He would’ve covered Damian’s eyes so he didn’t have to see his mentor break his own rule, and he would’ve turned his pain on the Heretic.

“Yes.”

Dick doesn’t show any hint of guilt, more focused on Damian than the dead body he’d left impaled and burning six feet behind him.

‘Well then,’ Jason thinks to himself. ‘Shit.’

“Damian?”

Of _course_ Bruce picks this moment to appear, ashen-faced and windswept like he’d ran to get here, like he’d known what had happened before he’d seen it. Talia does love her games, and Jason doesn’t doubt she’d toyed with Bruce to make sure he couldn’t save Damian in time.

“ _Damian_. Oh god.”

Bruce stumbles, falling to his knees in front of Dick and Damian, hands reaching for their fallen bird with a vulnerability Jason’s never seen on Bruce before. Bitterly, he wonders if Bruce had looked like that when he’d found _Jason_ , but he knows this isn’t the time for those kinds of thoughts. He could always think them later, alone, after Dick’s safe from himself and Damian’s in a fresh coffin next to his old one. Fucking hell they’re all so fucked. This world is so _fucked_.

“Don’t _touch_ _him_ ,” Dick snarls, azure eyes burning as they narrow on Bruce. “Don’t you _fucking dare_ , or I’ll rip your goddamn _arm off_.”

“Dick—”

Dick sets Damian on the ground reverently, an infinite softness etched into his features as he presses one last kiss to Damian’s forehead. Any trace of softness leaves as his eyes land back on Bruce, a shield between him and Damian that’s blatant. Dick’s pissed. He’s heard about this kind of anger, but it’s surreal to see it directed at Bruce.

“You _failed_ him,” Dick spits, fists tight around his escrima sticks. “You _failed_ him like you failed _me_ , like you failed _Jason_ , like you’re failing _Tim_ , like you failed _Steph_. You swore to me that you’d protect him, keep him safe and happy and alive so I could leave him and not kill myself with guilt. But you. Fucking. _Failed._ ”

Jason tries to set a comforting hand on Dick’s shoulder, but the older shrugs it off with a glare, daring Jason to try and interfere. Far be it for him to get involved in family squabbles, he’ll just be here to pick up the aftermath.

“Talia separated us. She wasn’t supposed to—”

“I don’t _care_ for your fucking excuses Bruce! I’m so done with them, so done with _you_! My little D is _dead_ because you couldn’t save him. Because _I_ couldn’t save him. Because you didn’t see _fit_ to fucking inform me there was a hit, until the orders came through to march on Leviathan you _egotistical piece of shit_. I _trusted_ Damian. I _loved_ Damian. I put my heart and fucking soul into that kid, and he’s dead because of _you_ and your ex’s psychotic science experiment.”

Bruce looks up, tears filling his eyes without any hesitancy, without Bruce trying to hide them. Jason doesn't know what to do with that.

“Heretic? Is he—”

“ _Dead_ ,” Dick replies coldly. “No thanks to _you_.”

“Dick, I never wanted to separate you and Damian. Not like this.”

Dick laughs.

“Yes you did, you bitter bastard. Admit it. He’s not here to hate you anymore, but I am. I do. I won’t forgive this. I’m _done_ forgiving you.”

Dick tugs on Jason impatiently, casting one final look at Damian.

“Take him, Bruce. Put him next to your parents. But be careful, because if I see so much as a _bruise_ that he didn’t have before, I’ll…I’ll…”

Dick drops his weapons, and Jason barely catches him in time.

“I’ll hurt you. Hate you.”

Bruce flinches back, but Jason can’t tell if it’s from Dick’s words or the body.

“Shh Pretty Bird, Jason’s got you.” Jason murmurs, sliding an arm under Dick’s legs and one around his shoulders. Dick melts into him, tears still leaking from his sad eyes. “You’re okay now. It’s okay.”

Nothing’s okay, and Jason’s not sure it ever will be again.

*

Jason takes him home. There’s a few hundred different scenarios he’s imagined (typically in between his sheets late at night) where Dick Grayson sits at his kitchen counter drinking the bourbon he’d stolen from Bruce’s liquor basement-thing, but this isn’t even close to any of them. Normally it starts at a bar, _their_ bar, and Jason says the right joke and Dick asks him to take it somewhere more private (he’s cheesy, sue him). Jason will have him ride on the back of his motorcycle on the way over, and Dick’s hands will wander over his muscles and make it difficult for him to drive. They kiss after the first drink, and they fuck after the second. Against the wall, over the counter, and finally on his bed. In his more frequent fantasies, he tops, but in the rare one, Dick does.

But they hadn’t started at their bar, they’d started in a war-torn courtyard with Damian’s dead body in the space between them. Dick’s not here because Jason said the right thing, he’s here because he can’t be alone. A promise to a dead boy…

“ _Don’t let Richard be alone, Todd. Don’t_.”

But Jason’s a man of his word, watching silently as Dick pads into his kitchen to grab two glasses and the bourbon off the counter. Instead of being impressed by Jason’s boldness, he stares at the drink with a flicker of familiarity, numbed by the exhaustion set heavy in his hunched shoulders. He pours the drinks carefully, filling them a lot fuller than Jason would and sliding over one to Jason. Jason raises it with a half-grin that Dick tries to match, but it falls flat. They both throw back the drink, delighting in the burn, and Jason thinks this is how his evenings going to go until Dick breaks the silence in a way only he would.

“Want to fuck?”

Jason chokes on air, feeling warmth flood his cheeks. Dick smirks, and Jason would think it’s normal Dick behavior if it weren’t for the rings of red around his eyes, the blood on his hands.

“Pretty Bird, I don’t want to take advantage.”

Dick rolls his eyes, stretching to unzip his suit at the back.

“You aren’t. Either you do or you don’t, Little Wing. We’ve already kissed, and I want to feel something. In or out?”

Dick’s in front of him suddenly, pale gold and puffy eyed, azure eyes shining beautifully, _dangerously_. He looks at Jason like he wants to devour him, like he wants to _consume_ him. It’s everything he’s ever wanted, and he’s always been weak for the things he wants.

“In,” he murmurs, feeling Dick’s lips ghost over his. “Definitely in.”

No other words are spoken that night, and Dick’s gone before he wakes up with only a note to show he’d been there at all.

‘ _I wish I could stay,’_ it reads. ‘ _But I can’t. Not now. Maybe not ever. You deserve the best Jason, and I wish…I wish I could be that.’_

Jason sets the safehouse on fire, and watches it burn.

May 21st – Death of Dick Grayson

The next time he hears about Dick, it’s from Donna Troy. She calls Kori and Roy’s Titans communicators frantically, blowing them up and nearly giving the Outlaws away in the middle of an op.

“ _What_?” Jason snaps as he answers, Roy and Kori huddled next to him looking annoyed.

“It’s Dick,” she says, and that’s probably the worst thing she could’ve said. He’s spent weeks hearing about how reckless Dick is, how stupid he’s being. He’s seen footage of him jumping in front of bullets like some kind of wannabe Superman, seen him jump into crowds of armed men with nothing but his sticks and fury and coming out damn near unconscious. He’s reckless in his grief, uncontrollable, and he doesn’t need to notice the way Donna’s voice cracks on her best friend’s name to know what she’s going to say. “He’s…he’s… _dead_.”

The world spins as he hears the words, as if he hadn’t expected them. He’d known before she said it, had known the second he recognized Donna’s voice, but…

He hands the phone to Kori without a word, numb and cold as the knowledge seeps in, as his heart registers the meaning of them. Dead. _Dead_. Dick Grayson isn’t supposed to be dead. He’s the one left behind, the one who _survives_. He’s the one who isn't afraid to put Bruce in his place, who cares and cares and gives and _gives_ until he has nothing left for himself. He’s alive in everything he is, says, does, thinks, breathes. Dick Grayson is the most alive person Jason’s ever known.

He’s not supposed to die.

“X’hal,” Kori murmurs, hand clasped over her mouth to hold back a sob. “Richard…”

He doesn’t hear anything but the roar of blood in his ears, the painful _thump thump_ of his still-beating heart. He should’ve stayed, should’ve _tried_. Damian had wanted him to, before. Jason had told himself he would, before. Before Dick…before _they_ …

 _Fuck_.

“I’m leaving,” Jason announces, grabbing a helmet and the keys to his bike off the space ship’s kitchen counter. “Don’t wait up.”

“Jason—” Roy calls, but Jason’s already gone.

*

The bar’s empty when he walks in, not a soul besides him and the now-familiar bar keep. The neon ‘ _open_ ’ sign flickers, but doesn’t go out, so Jason steps inside and orders the fruitiest thing they have. Something Dick would love, something he’d laugh at Jason for drinking and risking his “tough guy” reputation. God, he misses Dick. He misses the taste he hadn’t had enough time to memorize, the spicy cinnamon of liquor rolling off Dick’s tongue. He misses the scent of him, the way he’d curled over Jason after their final round of sex before passing out. He misses those pretty eyes, and the way they'd lit up when his Pretty Bird came.

He takes a cautious sip of the drink, smiling when the sugar rush hits his sense. It’s good, the dangerous kind of good. He could get fucked up without realizing it pretty easily off these drinks, which is perfect when he only wants to forget and not feel.

Jason takes a larger sip this time, sighing as the fuzzy edge of alcohol settles in nicely. It makes the world less real, the pain less jagged. Dick’s not dead if Jason’s drunk, after all, he’s on his way and going to drop by any time, like he always does.

“Spot for one more?” a familiar voice asks, teasing and beaming. Jason blinks. He hadn’t realized he’d be in the delusional phase of grief so soon. Tim had had to build up to that, after all. At least he’ll get to yell at Dick a little bit before the whole reality thing sunk in.

“You’re an asshole,” Jason mutters, keeping his eyes off of the Dick-mirage sitting next to him. “What kind of bastard just up and dies.”

A phantom shoulder bumps into his.

“Takes a corpse to know a corpse,” Dick teases. “Does this mean I get to make jokes about my death too?”

“Nah,” Jason chokes out. “That’s only allowed for super gruesome deaths, pill-boy.”

If he didn’t know better, he’d almost think Dick is real. The hand on his shoulder certainly _feels_ real, even though he knows Bruce’s probably having Dick sized for a coffin as he talks to himself and the empty stool next to him. Dick is dead, because Lex Luthor had killed him. Too bad the League had moved the egotistical ass into a max security cell on the Watchtower. Even _Jason’s_ not that good solo, and Babs hadn’t been super willing to help him commit murder.

“You okay?” the Dick-mirage asks, and Jason sighs deeply.

“How can I be, Pretty Bird. You’re dead.”

He can hear the frown in Dick’s voice, well, the _hallucinated_ Dick’s voice, because real Dick is dead. So long as he holds that fact close to his heart, he isn’t crazy. Just sad. Arkham’s not a place he wants to go to again.

“I’m not dead.”

Jason snorts.

“Yeah, you are. Donna told me. God knows I wish you weren’t.”

“But I’m _not_.”

“Yes,” Jason says, feeling an inkling of frustration at his subconsciousness’s insistence on being stubborn about this, when his brain should know how much that hope hurts, how much that delusion would break Jason if he entertains it for too long. “You are. Lex Luthor killed you.”

“He tried. Jay, look at me.”

Jason’s eyes dart to Dick’s briefly, taking in the heavily banadaged face and smell of antiseptics oozing off Dick in painful waves. God, his mind really does hate him.

“You’re dead. I have to accept you’re dead, or else I’ll go on a soul quest and have Ra’s al Ghul lust after me across the world while trying to be my sugar daddy.”

“Jason, no. Just no. I’m not _dead_. Luthor administered a cardioplegia pill that stopped my heart so the bomb wouldn’t go off—”

“And then you died. I know this, Dick.”

Dick sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“No. I died, and then Luthor injected a shot of adrenaline directly into my heart, so I came back.”

“But you _didn’t_.”

“But I—oh for fuck’s sake Jason,” Dick mutters, and then there’s a rough tug on his shoulders and a warm press of lips against his, and Jason thinks the pain of denial is worth it. Worth _this_. One last kiss, for a moment, with the guy he’s been stupidly in love with since he was a fifteen-year-old idiot in panties thinking it gave him magic. He’d loved Dick before death, and he’d loved him after death. If there’s one thing he knows, it’s that he’ll never stop loving Dick Grayson.

And fuck if his mind isn’t proving that fact true, his hallucination even tastes like Dick. Like cinnamon and smoke, fruity and spicy and something so uniquely Dick it makes Jason ache. It smells like him too, like coconut body wash and blood spatter. Dick hums into their kiss, keeping it painfully soft, and it’s Jason who ends up breaking it.

“Okay,” he says. “I’m ready.”

Dick raises an unimpressed brow.

“Ready for what?”

“Ready to accept your death.”

Dick slaps him, and Jason holds his cheek in shock.

“That _hurt_.” Hallucinations aren’t supposed to hurt.

“Hey!” the bartender calls, “you can’t be doin’ that in here! Take it outside!”

“Wait,” Jason says, jerking a thumb at Dick. “You can see him too?”

The bartender squints at Jason.

“You on drugs or just stupid?”

“Both,” Dick interjects, cuffing Jason on the neck. “Ignore him.”

“You’re not a hallucination,” Jason blurts. “You’re real. Did you just kiss me?”

Dick rolls his eyes again, wrapping an arm around Jason’s waist and ignoring the huffing bartender’s departure.

“I had sex with you a month ago, moron. It’s a good thing you’re pretty.”

“I love you,” Jason says, then immediately flushes. That drink must’ve been stronger than he’d realized, no wonder Dick guzzles them like there’s no tomorrow. Dick’s smile makes his little blurt worth it, so wide and sparkling that Jason’s struck with longing. He wants to taste that smile off Dick’s lips again, every day, all day, all the time.

“Lets go to my place,” Dick says, leading Jason out the door and towards the alleyway. He tosses Jason a helmet, and swings a leg over his motorcycle. “Hop on.”

Jason holds tight as the motorcycle roars down the quiet streets, and feels more than he hears Dick’s laugh. He’s missed Dick, in the weeks leading up to now. Missed running into him at this bar, missed bantering with him and feeling that painful-wonderful longing rooted deep in his soul. He aches for Dick, all the time, and there’s nothing better than feeling him. Being with him. Even when he’s an ass. Jason’s got a temper too, after all, and he’s good at being a jerk.

“We’re here,” Dick says, offering Jason a hand off the bike. He takes it, feeling a little wobbly on his feet. “I gotcha.”

Dick fits under his arm perfectly, like he’d been made to be there, and…maybe Jason really is drunk. That is too sappy a thought to be having at this time in the day (night? Morning? Who knows). They manage to stumble into the elevator all right and through Dick’s unlocked apartment door. Dick expertly dodges the litany of discarded shirts and shoes and case files covering his floor and leads Jason to the bedroom.

“I love you,” Jason repeats, because it seems like the right time to say it. Dick sets him on the bed gently, tugging off his combat boots and skinny jeans with a smile.

“I know,” he says, stripping down to his boxers and curling next to him.

“Will you be here in the morning?” Jason asks.

Dick presses a soft kiss to his cheek, brushing his white bangs out of his eyes.

“I’ll be here as long as you want me.”

“So…forever.”

Dick drapes a leg over Jason’s, letting Jason’s arm curl around his waist.

“Forever sounds like a start.”

Jason grins, feeling the fuzziness set in again.

“I love you,” he says one last time, because he really wants Dick to know that. He really wants to say it, because he’d thought Dick had died without ever knowing.

“I love you too, Little Wing,” Jason hears, and he knows that wasn’t just his imagination.

**Author's Note:**

> thoughts?


End file.
